


Four Is A Bond Now Broken

by Greenlips24



Series: 'Tis Hate and Fate that Vengeance Seeks [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: Someone is playing a deadly game. How long does it take for The Inseparables to unravel and for despair to set in?





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One – It Begins**

Aramis always loved the ride back to Paris.

****

“It’s a beautiful day, Gentlemen,” he sighed, taking off his hat and holding his face to the sun. Porthos huffed. He was just tired and hungry. Nature did not appeal to him as it did to his poetic brother.

****

“I’m starvin’,” he growled. “What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of beef stew,” he said whistfully. “A big bowl...” he added.

****

“Soon, Porthos,” Athos murmured. Food was just fuel to him, sought only when his stomach reminded him it was empty. And even then he could take it or leave it.

****

“It will be good to get back,” d’Artagnan chipped in, happily. They had been away for several days, but it had been an uneventful mission for once, and they had all enjoyed each other’s company.

****

Arriving back at the Garrison, Athos climbed the stairs to Treville’s office to give his report. Appearing a few minutes later as their horses were being led to the stables, he walked briskly over.

****

“We are not needed until the morning, so the evening is ours” he said.

****

After freshening up, they met up later at The Wren and took the table in the corner. Porthos was happy, beef stew was actually on the menu that night. He ordered two bowls.

****

“What?” he said, catching Athos’s look.

****

“May I suggest a bigger bowl?”

****

“Nah, no time,” Porthos answered, his mouth full.

****

Athos looked away before Porthos could see the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

****

“Aramis!” cried Jenny as she carried bottles of wine to the tables.

****

“Where have you been?!”

****

“On a mission of great importance, my beauty,” he twinkled, sliding an arm around her waist.

****

“Have you missed me?”

****

“Of course!” she smiled, stroking his cheek.

****

Athos caught d’Artagnan’s eye and they both shared a smile.

****

Porthos finished his stew, and considered ordering a third, but decided against it when he spotted a card game at a nearby table.

****

“How anyone still plays cards with Porthos is a mystery,” whispered d’Artagnan.

****

“He doesn’t always cheat,” replied Athos, pouring more wine into their glasses.

****

“He is like an expert fisherman; he seeks his quarry, sets his lure, casts his net, and waits for the bounty.”

****

“Like a black widow spider,” d’Artagnan laughed.

****

“Precisely.”

****

The night passed well. d’Artagnan saved their drinks by expertly raising two bottles of wine just as a neighbouring drinker was sent sprawling across their table by his disgruntled friend. The barman finally had had enough of Aramis taking up too much of Jenny’s time and pulled her off his knee for the fourth time. By the loud booming laugh coming from their companion across the room, Porthos had apparently won again. Athos was pleasantly mellow after drinking less than he normally would; his mood light hearted as he sat with his back to the room, watching his brothers unwinding.

****

After a successful evening, they spilled happily out into the night, holding each other up and seeing each other to their individual lodgings.

****

The next morning found Aramis already sitting at the table in the yard, helping himself to bread and ham. Porthos and d’Artagnan came through the archway together and on seeing them, Aramis smiled.

****

“It’s a beautiful day, Gentlemen!” he said.

****

“You said that already,” growled Porthos, clearly worse for wear.

****

“That was yesterday,” replied Aramis, laughing.

****

Picking up an apple, d’Artagnan crashed down next to Aramis, looking around.

****

“Where’s Athos?” he asked, just as Treville’s door opened and Athos emerged, buttoning his blue leather jacket and taking the stairs two at a time.

****

“What’s the rush?” said Porthos, pushing two slices of beef between a squashed piece of bread. Athos frowned at the decidedly unattractive sight as Porthos took a bite and shook his head.

****

“Just an errand,” Athos replied, pulling on his gloves.

****

“I’ll go!” d’Artagnan bolted to his feet.

****

“Thank you, but no, finish your breakfast. This won’t take long.”

****

Surveying his three friends, he smiled slightly and reminded them that the regiment were all due on the square behind the Garrison in one hour for assessment and briefing by the Captain.

****

Being last onto the square also meant they were the first off, and so it was that the three strode through the archway into the empty yard a few hours later.

****

They were in mid conversation, when Aramis stopped dead and threw his arm out against his brothers. Confused, Porthos and d’Artagnan followed his gaze.

****

There, in the middle of the yard, was a single blue leather sleeve, the pauldron still attached, although now secured by a wicked looking knife, thrust into the ground.

****

Aramis felt his stomach clench.

****

Porthos moved first.

****

“It’s Athos’s!” he shouted.

They moved forward and looked down at the sleeve. The knife skewered a note, its lettering clearly visible:

****

_Four is a bond now broken_

****

_He has three days_

****

Porthos reached down and pulled out the knife, freeing the note.

As he did so, the sleeve moved, and he fell backwards with a terrible howl, scrambling away.

A hand protruded from the cuff of the leather sleeve, the dead fingers already beginning to blacken.

Aramis fell to the ground, his knees buckling, bile rising in his throat.

d’Artagnan staggered under the stairs where he lost the contents of his stomach.

Porthos continued to howl.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - Aftermath**

Treville had only just returned to his office and settled down behind his desk, ready to start his daily paperwork, when the unholy noise from the yard below disturbed him. Realising something was terribly wrong; he crossed the room in three paces, and pulled open his door. Throwing himself onto the balcony, he surveyed the chaotic scene below him.

Musketeers were now filing noisily back through the archway on their way back from the square. At the horrific sight before them, they stopped in shock, their numbers piling up. Serge appeared muttering from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, a frown on his face.

At first, Treville couldn’t make sense of it. His focus shifted to Aramis, in the centre of the yard.

“What the hell is going on!” he shouted, pounding down the stairs.

He skidded to a halt behind Aramis, who was still on his knees, his head bent almost onto the dirt.

Looking wildly around, he saw d’Artagnan collapsed against the wall under the stairs, and Porthos – Porthos, his huge warrior, crying like a baby; his back against a barrel that had finally halted his backward scramble.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his stomach clench as he saw the focus of their distress.

It had suddenly gone very, very quiet.

It was Serge, their old soldier, who came forward and took charge. He had seen many a gruesome sight in his lifetime but never anything like this, in the place they called home.

Instinct took over and he pulled Aramis off his knees, and sat him down at the table. Then he bent and took hold of the pauldron and pulled it off the sleeve, laying it reverently on the table. Aramis shied away from it, but Serge put a supporting hand firmly on his shoulder.

Looking up at Treville, he nodded at the severed arm lying on the floor, encased within the familiar leather sleeve.

“You won’t know ‘til you look,” he said, eyes locking onto the Captain’s.

Treville met his eyes, and then came alive. Ignoring d’Artagnan and Porthos, he turned and crouched in front of their medic, Aramis, now leaning forward on the bench, his face in his hands, moaning.

“Aramis! Serge is right, son.”

After a few moments, Aramis slowly lifted his head and peered at his Captain in confusion.

“You have to check,” Treville said gently, putting both hands firmly on his shoulders.

Aramis rubbed his hands over his face and at first, started to shake his head. But Treville squeezed his shoulders and gently but firmly pulled the medic to his feet.

Aware of the awful noises starting up again from his two brothers, Aramis crouched in front of the gruesome sight before him. Holding his breath, and taking hold of the dead fingers, he gently pulled the arm from the sleeve.

With a cry, he fell sideways, gasping for breath.

He looked across then at Porthos, who had turned away and was looking behind him at the ground; not able to watch what Aramis was having to do.

Aramis drew in a shaking breath, and crawled over to grab Porthos’s forearm.

“It’s not Athos....it’s not Athos,” he whispered, before falling backward.

“Porthos, it’s not him,” he sobbed.

Taking the big man’s tear stained face in his hands he pulled it up so he could make eye contact. Porthos was still in shock. Eyes tight shut and body shaking, he was whimpering and rocking, his arms wrapped around himself.

Hearing Aramis’s urgent plea, he opened his eyes and gradually focussed on Aramis.

“Whaaa...?” he whispered.

“It has a scar! The arm has a scar.... it’s not Athos!” Aramis touched his forehead to Porthos’ and pulled him close

.

Treville, thanking God quietly, bent over and pulled air into his lungs. He stood and looked at Serge, now smiling faintly and nodding. The Captain nodded back at Serge, grateful for the old man’s presence of mind. He then spun around and moved quickly toward d’Artagnan, not sure the boy was even aware of where he was right now.

Hauling him to his feet, Treville clasped him in an embrace, before moving him over to Aramis, who was now standing, swaying gently and muttering, “It’s not him” over and over. Porthos managed to haul himself up, and they all stood together, mute with shock.

Serge removed the offending object then and moved away, gently shooing the watching Musketeers off, leaving the Captain and the three brothers to recover and let the enormity of what had just happened sink in.

Later, Serge brought brandy and they all sat together in the Captain’s office.

The note they had taken from the knife lay on the desk in front of them.

_Four is a Bond now Broken_

_He has three days ___

“Why are we sitting here!” d’Artagnan suddenly demanded, thumping his hand on the desk in front of him. “We should be doing something!”

Nobody spoke. This morning, all was well. It had happened so quickly. Within the space of a few hours their world had twisted violently on its axis.

“Where do we start?” Treville finally said. “I have no idea what is going on!” His thoughts were firmly on his lieutenant. He leaned forward and picked up the note. Turning it over in his hands, he sighed.

“It’s a rough, poor quality paper, made from hemp and flax. Compared with the parchments on my shelves, the only thing it tells us is that this paper is in common use. There is nothing to be gained by further investigation into its production.”

“So we ‘ave nothin’ to go on.” said Porthos flatly.

“Why would they take Athos?” Aramis whispered, unable still to gather his thoughts in any coherent order.

“We may have to wait until whoever has Athos makes the first move.” Treville said quietly.

But he knew, looking around the desk as his despondent men, that waiting was the one thing none of them wanted to do.

And what would happen when the allotted three days were up?

He had a terrible feeling that this was only the beginning.

To be continued ...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The following day, Treville sent three foot patrols out onto the streets of Paris. He could give them no clear direction, apart from searching, asking questions, and making their presence felt.

The Captain knew that he only had the note to go on, but he was quite sure that Athos was, for now somewhere beyond their reach. The threat was real, if not yet clear. The patrols, he said, would continue for three days. The grisly accompaniment to the note served to focus everyone’s minds.

The atmosphere in the Garrison was sombre to say the least.

The Palace had been informed, the King asking in his usual self interest if there was a threat to him. After becoming aware of the intense gaze of the Queen beside him, more men were offered to aid the Musketeers in their search. Treville gracefully accepted, although his jaw ached through the persistent clenching of his teeth throughout his audience. He was relieved to finally take his leave.

Porthos roamed the streets, his first stop being the Court of Miracles. There was nothing they could tell him, but he knew the numbers searching and asking questions would now be significantly increased.

Aramis set off to retrace their brother’s footsteps. The errand Athos had undertaken that morning was one that his fellow musketeers undertook on a regular basis. He confirmed that Athos had completed the task. There was nothing suspicious about it, and Aramis returned dejected and frustrated.

D’Artagnan toured the taverns. Even though Athos had been with them the night before and the following morning, he hoped there may be something he could discover that may shed light on why he had disappeared. He too came away disappointed.

Underlying their search, they each harboured dark thoughts as to what condition their brother was in. He had been taken against his will. Had he struggled and been injured? The uncertainty was the worst kind of torture.

At the end of the third day, they knew nothing more.

D’Artagnan, always full of energy and life, seemed lost and lethargic.

Aramis, ever the optimist, was becoming despondent.

And Porthos, never a patient man, punched walls and tables.

“I wish Athos had eaten some stew that night,” Porthos said quietly. “He didn’t even stop for breakfast.”

They knew what he meant. Athos, never one to take care of himself, would need his strength wherever he was, but they knew his reserves would be depleted.

Porthos let his shoulders slump, thinking back. That day had been a good day. They had enjoyed their ride back to Paris, and their evening in the tavern. Athos had been in good spirits.

Aramis broke into his sad reverie;

“Come, we must rest,” he said quietly. An impossible task he knew. But they needed their strength if they were to be of any use. Treville expected nothing less. Neither would Athos.

D’Artagnan stood, ready to comply, but Porthos shook his head.

“I’m stayin’ here,” he growled, looking up at Aramis. Aramis knew better than to challenge him. He had seen the look in those dark eyes many times.

“I know Mon Ami,” Aramis let his hand fall onto Porthos’s head. He and d’Artagnan retired reluctantly to bed, although both doubted they would sleep. Porthos sat himself down at the table, acutely aware of times spent bickering and laughing on those familiar benches.

Sometime during the night, after he had made numerous restless circuits of the Garrison walls, he allowed his head to rest on his arms on the table, and exhaustion took him. He must have slept deeply, as he only woke when light began to filter through his eyelids. He raised his head and stretched his cramped back. Opening his eyes, he saw something he could not make sense of at first.

Never one to wake easily, he scrubbed his hand over his face, and peered toward something gleaming in the centre of the yard. This vision finally cleared and he realised what it was.

A sword, thrust into the ground, swaying gently, the sun shining on its steel edge.

He was suddenly alert, whirling around, and then running through the archway in search of whoever had left it. It must have just happened, as it was still swaying and there was no breeze. The streets outside were now getting busy and noisy and whoever may have done this had melted away. He cursed loudly and rushed back into the yard. His heart sank when he saw a note, pierced by the blade.

He recognised the weapon then, and closed his eyes.

It was Athos’s beloved sword.

As he bent to retrieve the note, Aramis rode through the archway, dismounting while the horse was still moving.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, as Porthos read the note:

_He is defenceless_

Aramis grabbed the note before a bellowing Porthos could screw it up and throw it as far away as he could.

To be continued ...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four – Day Four**

**Captain Trevillle’s office:**

Porthos was inconsolable.

“I fell asleep!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. He was visibly shaking with rage. Most of it aimed at himself.

Athos’s sword was lying across the desk where Treville had placed it. He held the second note in his hand.

Treville sat behind his desk surveying his three men, not liking what he saw. Porthos was pacing angrily up and down, now; no-one daring to stop him. Aramis was leaning dejectedly against the closed door, seemingly seeking comfort in the support it gave him. D’Artagnan stood by the window peering down at the yard below, gnawing at a gloved finger, lost in thought.

Treville watched Porthos pacing for a while, allowing his soldier’s adrenaline level to gradually abate, before leaning forward and sighing,

“Porthos, you are all exhausted. Whoever is doing this knows what he is doing.”

d’Artagnan turned from the window,

“Does this mean that Athos is still alive? The three days are up, and we have another message...” 

There was sparse comfort to be had, but he took some from that.

“He’s telling us Athos has no weapon,” whispered Treville, allowing the meaning to hang in the air.

They all knew that Athos would not give up his weapon lightly.

“But still alive?” d’Artagnan continued, plaintively. Not wanting to believe otherwise.

When no-one answered, he slumped into a chair, his hand reaching out to touch the blade. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on how his mentor must be feeling without it. Now he knew how Porthos felt, wanting to punch anything nearby.

“This is the fourth day.” he whispered, covering his eyes with his hand.

After a long silence, Aramis reached out and put his hand on his shoulder.

“I think we should forego our lodgings, and stay here at the Garrison,” he said, “Whoever is doing this seems to have ready access, at least to the yard.”

“The building is a public place,” Treville said wearily. “Always busy with tradesmen, merchants, laundry workers, kitchen hands, the list is long,” his voice getting louder as the list grew. “The building itself is open to the street on two sides. As much as I would like to lock it down, I cannot.”

There seemed little else but to do as Aramis suggested, and they took rooms in the Garrison.

Treville kept up the patrols but they wondered how long it would be possible to allow three patrols of musketeers to continue searching when their other duties were calling. The King still needed his guards, and Treville was loathe to pull back his regiment and allow the Red Guard any more power. He was suspicious of Rochefort as it was; he needed to keep a substantial presence at the Palace.

To this end, Aramis and Porthos agreed to continue with their guard duty, as they needed eyes in the Palace. Whoever they were up against obviously knew the Garrison layout, so they needed a constant presence there too. It was frustrating that this seemed to be the only productive task at the moment, but there were no leads whatsoever and they needed to do _something._

With Aramis and Porthos at the Palace, this meant that d’Artagnan remained at the Garrison, which he was more than happy to do. It was easier to keep his mind busy there, than standing guard at the Palace. As it turned out though, he could not be in two places at once, however alert he remained. And so it was that he was not there when a third note was left in the stable, thrust onto a nail in the post by the door.

He had been occupied all morning, and watched various tradesmen and merchants coming and going. He had searched wagons, and his eyes constantly roamed over people and around the walls. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but it was disturbing that two items had now appeared within the Garrison and he had started to view everyone as suspicious.

After he had eaten, he sought solace with the horses, his usual habit when stressed or worried. D’Artagnan was carrying a saddle across the stable when he saw the note. He stopped short in front of it, his heart thumping.

Looking around, he dropped the saddle and, reaching out, pulled the note off the nail.

_He can hear you_

Something fell to the floor from behind the note with a sickening thump. He looked down.

A freshly severed ear, bloodied and ragged.

Gagging, he lurched backwards, almost falling. He spun around. Gasping, he staggered through the archway into the street, supporting himself along the wall, pushing his way into the crowds.

Looking up at all the buildings surrounding the Garrison, he shouted, whirling round and around, his eyes desperately raking the overlooking buildings, 

_“ATHOS!”_

Shouting his name. Over and over.

Until he could shout no more, his voice gone.

The crowds, now silent around him, staring.

His legs finally gave out and he crumpled, the note still clutched in his hand.

That was where Aramis and Porthos found him when they rode back from the Palace.

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – Day Six**

_“He can hear you.”_

Four words that brought them sheer torment.

With all their skill, they were totally helpless. They sat together in one room that night. They could find no words of comfort, but being together brought some solace. They dare not voice their darkest thoughts. They attempted to speak fondly of Athos, but their words dried in their mouths.

“We’re being made fools of.” Aramis whispered, finally.

“Is it staring us in the face?” d’Artagnan said, forlornly, looking at the note.

Was Athos lost in plain sight?

“What are we missin’?” Porthos growled, pacing the room.

“All we know is that whoever is leaving these notes knows the Garrison, and, as we’ve said, it’s a public place,” d’Artagnan replied in exasperation, laying his head on his arms on the table.

He had watched the comings and goings of the numerous visitors and merchants, but still felt, as Porthos said, that there was something they were missing.

d’Artagnan looked up and watched Porthos pacing.

“Is there anyone here, who we’ve overlooked?” he said, propping his head in the hands wearily.

They sat silently.

“There’s the new stable boy, but he’s only been here a few days, and he’s just a lad,” Aramis said, shaking his head.

“Two new kitchen hands, and the replacement farrier, but I’ve checked them out,” said Porthos, without breaking stride.

“And the new recruit,” d’Artagnan added.

Porthos stopped pacing and looked at d’Artagnan quizzically.

“Gerard LeSavage,” d’Artagnan offered.

“Well, I say “new”, but he’s been here a couple of months,” he said.

“What do we know about him?” said Aramis, looking at both his brothers.

“I’ve thrown ‘im around a bit,” Porthos said thoughtfully, remembering sparring with the man now. “He’s been around; came here from another regiment. He’s taken money in the past. And he’s handy with a sword,” he shrugged.

“You mean he’s been a mercenary?” said Aramis.

They all stopped then, and looked at each other.

“We need to find out a little more about the Musketeer LeSavage,” Aramis smiled for the first time since it began.

oOo

The following morning, Aramis was seated at their table, engrossed in cleaning his pistols. Porthos and d’Artagnan were going through a complicated sword routine, when Aramis tapped his musket on the table twice. They followed his gaze and saw LeSavage leaving Treville’s office and heading out through the gates.

LeSavage headed off through the streets, a bag slung across his shoulder, unaware he was being followed. They trailed him for a while. Eventually, he stopped at a tavern, and they waited outside. D’Artagnan slipped in through the door, emerging some time later.

“He’s eating,” he said.

Half an hour later, their quarry emerged and headed north. This time, he moved on to a jewellers. He emerged, stuffing a parcel into the bag and headed down an alley toward the docks.

The next destination was a stationary merchant.

“He’s buyin’ paper,” Porthos said.

“Time we spoke to our colleague,” Aramis said.

When LeSavage left the shop he turned left, and came to a dead stop in front of three impassive Musketeers.

Porthos took his bag and his elbow and escorted him down a nearby alley. To his credit, LeSavage did not struggle. Crouching down, they emptied the contents of the bag onto the cobbles.

oOo

Later, as they stood in Treville’s room, they were anything but jubilant.

Treville was furious. The contents of LeSavage’s bag lay across his desk.

A parcel, ten rolls of parchment and three bottles of ink.

No cheap paper made from hemp and flax.

He banged the desk. Running his fingers through his hair, he stared at them.

“What were you thinking?!” he shouted.

Before any of them could answer, Treville held up his hand.

“LeSavage came to us with good references,” he hissed. “Yes, he fought for money, but Athos was a Comte, almost a lost cause,” “You ...” he said, glaring at d’Artagnan, “were a farmer, who had just lost his father.” He turned to Aramis, “And you ...” exasperated he turned away.

“You suspect one of your own comrades?!” he shouted, not yet spent.

“And in so doing, you doubt my ability to employ honourable men? That man has earned his place among you. He is on light duties and was doing me a favour!”

“You owe him an apology. Luckily for you, he is a reasonable man.”

Porthos was the first to speak

.

“Sorry Captain, but we’ve had no leads, and we thought ....”

Treville looked up, face still flushed with anger.

“Consider this,” he growled,

“You may never know who has Athos. You are the King’s Musketeers. You have enemies. It goes with the territory.”

He sighed then, and sat down.

“Do you not think I miss him too; that I am not desperate for his return?”

“Do you not think that every time I hear a foot step on those stairs, I think he will be standing in that doorway, with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other?”

Before they could answer, his anger had returned.

Picking up the parcel LeSavage had collected, he thrust it at Porthos.

“The King is expecting this package to be delivered to the Swedish envoy in Blois. It does not take three Musketeers to do that, but you are all going to do it. And when you return, you will be on drills. You are getting sloppy.”

He stood and crossed the room, throwing open his door.

“Now get out of my sight.”

oOo

He watched them walking across the yard toward the stables. Porthos carried the parcel under his arm.

He walked back to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. Leaning down, he opened the bottom drawer in his desk and took out a parcel, delivered an hour ago, its paper now lying open. Laying it in front of him, he reached inside and lifted the familiar scarf from inside. He had last seen Athos tying it around his neck on that morning, when he took his leave. Inside, scribbled across the paper were the words,

_He is cold_

He would tell then when they returned.

oOo

When he did tell them, it was their turn to be angry.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” Treville said.

“And you needed to get away,” he added, defiantly.

The silence that ensued stretched on, heavy now with resentment and anger.

Aramis suddenly kicked the chair over, and reached for his hat. He walked out of the room and down the steps, striding purposefully to the stable. They watched from the balcony as he rode out of the Garrison. They had not questioned him. He was their leader now, _in absentia._ They needed purpose.

It took some time, but he finally found her, sitting in the Palace gardens, under a bower of wisteria. She certainly looked the part, resplendent in an emerald gown. He took off his hat and approached her. She looked up at him, knowing it was something important. He wouldn’t seek her out otherwise. She can see pain in his face, and although there is no love lost, she tolerates his presence.

He tells her about the arm, because he knows it’s not his brother’s.

Then he tells her about the ear with a heavy heart, because he doesn’t know. He has told his brothers it was not Athos’s, but in truth, he bears the heartache that he is not sure. How could he know?

He knew every scar on Athos’s body. Every lump on his head. He knew one leg was slightly shorter than the other after a bad break a few years ago. He could talk about his once damaged ankle that turned his right foot slightly outward when he walked. Or, laughably, the hair that covered his ears. He had bathed him, sewn his wounds, bandaged him, manipulated joints back into place, but he could no more recognise that ear than recognise an individual musket ball.

He does not like this woman, but he accepts that Athos loved her. Perhaps loves her still.

He takes out the four notes and hands them to her;

_He has three days_

_He is defenceless_

_He can hear you_

_He is cold_

He says to her “It’s not over. Will you help us?”

He knows he’s pleading, but he doesn’t care anymore. They are caught in a cycle that is becoming too familiar. Every day is the same. He wants it to stop. They all do. They are fearful for their brother. Their imaginations have taken them through all manner of nightmares. There are no leads, and they are running out of time. And behind it all, they know they are failing him.

Aramis is scared. He feels hollow. This is why he had done the unthinkable. He has turned to her.

“All for one, and one for all,” he whispers, not realising he has said it out loud.

She raises her head and looks at him, before she speaks;

“United you stand, divided you fall.”

He is shocked at her response, and takes a step back.

Her face expressionless, she hands the notes back.

He is glad of them; in a strange way they are a link to Athos.

Quietly she stands and walks away, giving no answer.

He sags back against the wall, feeling hopeless, bereft. Where else to turn? Surely the game is lost.

He watches her go, and then he turns and walks away.

oOo

She walks along the path but her step is heavy and she feels once more the world diminished because she does not know where he is. Whether he is alive or dead. And she experiences an unfamiliar feeling.

Fear.

oOo

To be continued ...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six – Day Ten**

They had searched the streets, the taverns, and the buildings around the Garrison. They had searched Athos’s room. Even those with their ears to the ground in the Court of Miracles had not turned up anything. They had spent sleepless nights and endured the agony of cryptic notes and grisly offerings. In the end, they could not think straight.

Treville called them into his office on the tenth day. They lined up wearily in front of his desk, all acutely aware of Athos’s sword still lying there. It was hard to look at it, its presence almost an accusation.

Treville looked at them for a moment, before sighing.

“I am sorry, Gentlemen, but I am under pressure from the Palace. Three patrols a day are severely depleting our capacity. I only intended the patrols for three days. I cannot spare the men.”

“We can’t just stop lookin’!” Porthos shouted.

Treville raised his hand and silenced his outburst.

“I’m telling you, officially, I cannot spare three patrols,” he stressed. “And that is all the Palace need to know.” He finished.

Porthos sighed.

“Sorry Captain.”

After they had left, Treville stood and looked at the sword on his desk. Reaching down, he gently touched the blade, before picking it up and taking it to the shelves behind him, where he carefully laid it down. He could bear to look at it no longer.

“I can’t take this anymore,” said d’Artagnan later, raking his fingers through his hair, as they sat together in the stables.

Porthos put an arm around his shoulders, and d’Artagnan leaned into him.

Aramis sat, spinning his hat, lost in thought. He had not told them where he had gone when he left Trevilles’s office after Athos’s scarf had been delivered. It had been preying on his mind, however, and he finally decided to unburden himself. Putting his hat on the floor at his feet, he stood. Taking a ragged breath he moved toward them.

“I went to see Milady,” he said, quietly.

“What?” said Porthos, swinging around and putting his large hand firmly on Aramis’s chest, stopping him in his tracks, his dark look demanding answers.

“Why would you possibly do that!” said d’Artagnan, staring intently at Aramis, now trapped against Porthos’s hand.

Aramis took hold of the hand and shoved it away. Porthos took a threatening step forward.

“Do you think I wanted to!” shouted Aramis.

He was standing between them now, hands raised in supplication, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Do you think I wanted to look into her cold eyes and ask her to help us find the man she wants dead?!”

“But it may be her doing!” d’Artagnan said, voicing what they were all thinking.

“Don’t you think I know that!” Aramis hissed in d’Artagnan’s face.

He felt a hand firmly grasp his collar then and Porthos pulled him back away from d’Artagnan.

Aramis’s feet briefly left the ground before he was hurled around to face the furious face above him. Porthos’s fist now took hold of Aramis’s shirt and brought him closer, until he could feel his breath. For a brief moment, he thought Porthos was going to smash his forehead into his face and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was aware of how quiet and oppressive it had become. But no pain came. After a long moment, he heard Porthos’s strangled sigh, as he released his tension and then felt two arms encircling him and pulling him close in a long embrace.

Aramis opened his eyes and rested his forehead on his brother’s chest.

“Athos wouldn’t want this,” d’Artagnan whispered sadly behind them.

Porthos reached out and pulled him close, and the three stood together, breathing hard, and totally spent.

Later, Aramis told them how hard it had been to seek out Milady, and they realised how much it had cost him to do that for Athos. For them.

He spoke of her reaction, that being the reason why he had kept it to himself. It was one more failure amongst many these last few days.

As he told them, something Milady had muttered to herself as she read the notes was playing around the edges of his mind.

_“Why Athos?”_

He didn’t know if she expected an answer, but he hadn’t had one at the time anyway. He didn’t know. The horror of the severed arm and ear was still too fresh in his mind.

But something registered and he stood up.

“We haven’t found anything, because there is nothing ...”

They looked at him blankly, not following this sudden train of thought.

“It’s not about Athos,” he continued. “We’ve been looking for a link where there is none.”

Aramis turned to d’Artagnan,

“You offered to go on the errand that morning. It could have been you. It could have been any one of us.” Aramis said.

“You mean it’s random?” Porthos struggled to follow.

“I don’t know!” Aramis looked at them desperately, not trusting this line of thought now, his brain too exhausted to put any connections together. Finally he said,

“It’s like the Captain said, we have enemies; it goes with the territory ...”

“And we may never know who has him.”

“So if this is nothing to do with Athos, and we may never know who has him - how do we find him?” d’Artagnan said, his eyes filling with tears.

oOo

They were still standing together in quiet contemplation when the stable boy, Jacques, came in. He held a note in his hand. Offering it to Aramis, he said, “This was pinned to the gate.”

The boy could not read, but he obviously knew the significance of the note, and he knew their reaction would be just as swift and painful as with the other notes.

In the silence that followed, they stood looking at the confused boy.

Then Aramis took the note from him, and patted him on the shoulder.

Unfolding it, his strength left him, and he stepped back and fell against a nearby hay bale.

_He has no food_

oOo

Later:

“Athos is strong.” Porthos said quietly to himself.

If he said it often enough, he may believe it. But it had been eleven days now since he had disappeared. Porthos kept running it through his mind. These notes were not leads; they were vicious barbs intended to pierce:

_He has no weapons; He can hear us; He is cold; He has no food._

What else?

The ear.

Aramis said it wasn’t his, but Porthos could tell by looking at him that he wasn’t sure. He daren’t let Aramis know that he suspected that; his brother was barely coping as it was.

They were so tired. They were angry, frustrated. They had nearly come to blows.

Even Treville seemed like a different person these days, barking orders, and often lost in thought.

“Athos is strong,” Porthos murmured.

At first, they had been driven. But in eleven long days and nights that had changed. These were quiet days now. Waiting for the next note.

_No food._

How long can a man live without food? Porthos agonised, knowing that personally, he could not last two days. He couldn’t trust himself now, after what had happened with Aramis. He had felt his fear. He felt ashamed of that.

“Athos is strong.”

Tears welled in his eyes. How he longed to sit Athos down in The Wren, and pour him a glass of wine and put a bowl of beef stew in front of him.

So he said “Athos is strong” to himself again, while massaging his knuckles, bloodied and sore from punching walls, and anyone who got in his way.

They were all in a different place now, hardly recognising each other.

This game was being won, and not by them.

oOo

**Day Twelve**

Three days later, another note found its way into Serge’s hands, as he pulled vegetables in the Garrison garden. It was handed to him by a market trader, but when questioned, the man did not know who had left it on his stall. Serge’s hands shook as he again walked up to the Captain’s office. How he wished he could spare them this. But it was important, he knew. So he knocked on the door and when it was opened, Treville saw by his face what it was. Taking the note from him, he patted Serge on the shoulder and offered him a weak nod, before trudging slowly down the stairs toward their table. He laid the note on the table in front of them.

They sat looking at it for several moments, again no-one moved; not wanting to know what it contained. D’Artagnan started to rock, his foot tapping on the floor. Porthos put both hands on the top of his head and walked across the yard. Aramis just looked beseechingly at his Captain.

And so it was Treville himself who reached forward and took it. They were numb now. But the words were perhaps the worst yet,

_He has no water_

To be continued ...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven – Day Thirteen**

Thirteen days. Time was running out now. They were not even speaking now, just going about their daily routine, desperately running everything through their minds over and over. They had stopped making suggestions now, as there was nowhere to go. Hope had faded, and a heavy sadness permeated their every move. Thirteen days. Was that all it took to destroy them?

Their brother was being tormented, dying, and they could do nothing. Had they really failed him?

Was Athos gone?

oOo

On their darkest day and at their lowest point, she came riding through the archway, shouting for Aramis.

She sat regally on her horse in the middle of the yard as he came running toward her, calling for his brothers. Looking up at her, he saw that she had what remained of Athos’s leather jacket in her arms.

“He is found?” cried Aramis.

She bent and passed him the jacket.

Followed by a note.

He took it and looked at her, before reading it:

_He is broken_

“No!” he shouted, crumpling the note in his hand. The air left his lungs, and he was on the verge of collapse, when he heard her say,

“Are you coming?”

He looked up at her, uncomprehending. But she had fire in her eyes.

“Make haste,” she said urgently, turning her horse.

Aramis turned and looked at Porthos and d’Artagnan, and a look of sheer hope passed between them.

He threw a glance up to Treville, who had appeared on his balcony. Treville nodded to him, and Aramis laid the jacket on the table and together the three ran into the stables, shouting for Jacques to saddle their horses. Then they were mounted and following her out of the Garrison gates, and into the streets.

 _“Bring him home,”_ Treville whispered to himself as he watched them go.

How she knew where to go, they did not know, but she led them through a maze of back streets that circled the Garrison, getting ever wider. Discarding their horses, they followed her down a bare alley to the very end. The buildings towered above them, throwing heavy shadows across the alley. The buildings were derelict warehouses, serving the river beyond. They had entered the alley on their eastern side. Grimy windows looked out from the top level, where the main storage would have been, fed by ropes and pulleys on the northern side of the building. There was a row of grimy windows on the top level and a row of small square windows at floor level, with nothing in between. At the end of the block there was a cellar door, and it was through this door that she led them. Inside, it was dark and damp, but there were torches along the length of the wall, and Milady lit the first one, passing it to Porthos to use to light the rest. Rats scurried to get out of their way.

She led them down through the passageway and then turned left. There were no further torches to be lit, so Porthos held his aloft and they carried on. The passageway sloped down and ended with several steps, taking them up again one level to a door, which was standing open.

They crashed into a small room, expectantly.

It was empty.

There was one small filthy window, high in the wall, at floor level with the street outside, allowing them to get their bearings. A wooden cot stood against one wall with a thin blanket strewn across it. In the corner, there was a bucket of “drinking” water, now foul, and a bowl with the remains of a meagre meal hardly touched, no rancid. They looked around, dismayed that he was not there.

Suddenly, they heard a barrage of musket shots in the near distance.

Recognising the sound, d’Artagnan grabbed Aramis’s arm.

“That’s the Garrison!”

They realised then that it was their fellow Musketeers at target practice – as individuals, they used the targets every day, but en masse, they practised three times a week, and the noise was excessive.

_“He can hear you”_

It made sense now.

She leant over the bed and gathered up a bundle of creased papers she had discovered earlier when she had first picked her way into this room.

“You should look at these,” she said, passing them to Aramis.

_They have three days_

_They are defenceless_

_They can hear you_

_They are cold_

_They have no food_

_They have no water_

_They are broken_

They looked at her, uncomprehending.

“Athos has been here all the time. He has been given the same notes as you. He believed you were going through this torment,” she said, “and you believed he was.”

oOo

d’Artagnan sat heavily on the bed. Porthos took the notes from a shattered Aramis, the enormity of this game finally being realised.

“But the game isn’t over yet,” she added, pulling them back to reality.

“What do you mean?” whispered d’Artagnan, his voice suddenly hoarse.

She walked over to the door, and slammed it shut. On the back was tacked a crude map, and across it was scrawled:

_“He cannot move”_

“But why are they showing us where he is now?” d’Artagnan asked her, frowning.

She smiled then. To her, knowledge was power and at this moment, she held the cards.

“Whoever took Athos did not intend to kill him; that would have been too easy. They wanted to toy with you; to break you. But now, they have to get rid of him, too many people are asking questions, and their hiding place is discovered.

“What better way than to entice you to watch him die, and he you?” she finished.

“But where is he, dammit!” d’Artagnan pleaded, peering at the map but not understanding.

“In the Forest of Compiegne,” she replied, tapping a red finger nail against the map.

Looking at the map, it looked like the place marked was under the ridge to the west of the forest. There were several roads through the forest, all converging in the centre. It would therefore be possible to get well into the forest and then complete their journey to the ridge on foot, taking any advantage they could. They would be expected, but then, why make it easy?

“It’s a clever game,” she added before turning and walking out, leaving them staring at the map.

“How did she know where to find him?” d’Artagnan whispered, after she had gone.

“She’s ruthless,” Aramis replied, softly, screwing the notes up and throwing them on the floor.

oOo

The Forest of Compiegne* was some ten leagues north of Paris. It was roughly circular with a diameter of about 14km and over 35 acres in area. The village of Compiegne lay on its northwest side. The forest itself comprised mainly oak, hornbeam and beech, and there were small lakes, ponds, brooks and springs throughout the forest. It was home to a number of game animals including deer, rabbit and wild boar, making it an ideal hunting ground for the King, and had been a favourite playground for his forebears.

There was plenty of cover for nefarious practices to take place. It was not always a safe place to be.

Fortunately, the Musketeers were acquainted with the forest, having accompanied the present King on a number of his hunting expeditions.

“A fine place for his Musketeers to die,” growled Porthos.

“Not today,” Aramis said.

“It’s two days ride at the most,” Porthos said.

“Then we’d better move, this game is drawing to a close!” Aramis shouted as he ran back through the door.

They were more alive, and suddenly filled with more hope than they had been for so many dark days.

But what would they face?

Would they survive?

And could they bring Athos home at last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** The Forest of Compiegne is in Picardy, France, near the city of Compiegne and is approximately 60 kilometres north of Paris. In the sixteen century, King Francis I commanded the construction of eight hard-surfaced roads through the forest, all of which converge on a single point called the King’s Well. Many French monarchs used the forest. Further avenues were opened for the formal hunting parties of Louis XIV


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

In their time, they had ridden longer, and harder, but never with so much purpose.

They stopped only for the horses, and even then, they pushed too hard. They had renewed hope. They knew their brother was alive; there had been a blanket on the bed, and water in the corner of the cellar. But the room had been empty, and they did not know when he had been taken from it to the forest so they didn’t know what physical condition he would be in.

They had seen the notes, he believed they had been taken and had been tormented, starved and broken. Had he given up, as they had started to?

Porthos kept thinking about that damned ear.

Finally, in the early morning, they crested a hill, and saw the forest below them.

Aramis called a halt;

“This is where they want us to die,” he said;

“First, we locate him, and then we get him out.”

“You make it sound simple,” growled Porthos.

Aramis turned and looked steadily at them both.

“This _game_ ends here. I don’t care how hard it is, and I don’t care how we do it. We ride into the forest as far as the ridge, and then we leave the horses, and go on foot.”

They spurred their horses on once more for the last part of the journey and drew to a halt at a bank of oak trees. Aramis pulled his medical kit from his saddlebag and they tied the horses loosely to a branch and set off. They had no idea if they would come back, and they at least wanted the horses to have a chance of escape, should the worst happen.

It was a large, dense forest, but it was familiar at least and they knew the area they needed to be in. They reckoned that if whoever was doing this wanted a showdown, they would choose a more open spot with plenty of high cover, so they headed toward the ridge, certain that the map was not a red herring, but unclear of its message:

_“He cannot move”_

They didn’t have to walk far, but soon Porthos was getting impatient, muttering under his breath, “Come on, show yerselves!”

Ahead, the trees thinned and there appeared to be a clearing. The high ridge was overhead now, and they continually scanned the rocks as they crept forward. If this was the place, it had been chosen well. It was highly defendable. That didn’t matter now, as they saw that the clearing was not empty. They could make something out. They moved closer.

And there, slumped against some rocks in the centre of the clearing, dirty and dishevelled, his head hanging down on his chest ...

_Was their brother._

_“Athos,”_ Aramis said softly, a sob in his throat.

They crouched low behind a huge fallen tree, taking stock.

“Is he alive?” whispered d’Artagnan urgently, making a move to rush in. Porthos grabbed his leg.

“Stay” he growled, giving his younger brother a look that said no argument.

Aramis watched Athos closely for a few minutes, trying to gauge his condition. Then he called his name. Porthos flinched, and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“They know we’re here,” Aramis said in response. “They’ve probably been watching us since we arrived. It doesn’t matter how much noise we make now.”

But there was no response from Athos. He seemed to be unaware of their presence.

They shifted position behind the fallen log, scanning the ridge above them now. It was hard sitting there while their brother was so close, but they needed to be cautious. Porthos was growing ever more impatient.

“We can’t sit ‘ere all day,” he muttered, eventually, starting to move toward his brother, eager to get on at long last.

As soon as he started to move, a shot rang out and dirt splattered close to Athos’s leg. Worryingly, he did not flinch. Porthos dropped quickly back down. He scanned the trees, but could see nothing. He picked up a rock and threw it to the far side of the clearing, away from Athos. A second shot rang out. However, it did not hit where the rock fell, as expected, but again close to Athos’s leg.

“Why aren’t they shootin’ at _us?”_ he said in confusion, trying to locate where the gunfire was coming from.

“What new torment is this?”

d’Artagnan began to be concerned that Athos was not moving.

“The words on the map said he couldn’t move,” d’Artagnan whispered to himself, confused,

“But he is not restrained.”

Aramis moved then, in an attempt to see how many assailants there were. Sure enough, in that instant there was another shot, closer to their brother’s leg this time. Still, Athos did not move.

Every time they tried to get close, the same happened.

Athos’s limp hand rested on the ground beside him, and was taking the brunt of the stone chippings fired toward him with every shot.

Porthos shifted position,

“He needs water. God knows how long he’s been ‘ere.”

Time crept by slowly. They moved back to try and work their way around the clearing, but every time they tried to make a move, a shot rang out, and the earth was thrown up close to Athos.

Once again, they were beginning to feel helpless. They just wanted him to know they are there. That he was not alone any more, whatever happened. But they could not give him that comfort, as he seemed to be oblivious to them and his surroundings. What chilled them though was that his eyes appeared to be half open. That wasn’t right.

The next time they moved, however, they were reminded in no uncertain terms that this game was a deadly one.

They flinched as the crack of another shot filled the air, and the ball hit Athos in his upper arm. They watched in horror as his arm jerked, and blood began to soak into his shirt sleeve. Still he did not move.

“No! Why doesn’t he move!” d’Artagnan cried.

“He does not move, Mon Ami, because he is broken,” Aramis said quietly, finally realising the words on the note Milady had handed him were true. They were all true.

“He can’t move, and neither can we,” Porthos grunted in response to d’Artagnan’s plea.

They were pinned against the log.

Time wore on.

At one point, d’Artagnan made a move to run forward, but Aramis put his hand firmly on his shoulder.

“It’s what they want! We will die in this clearing and how will that help Athos?!” he hissed.

d’Artagnan sank back against the log, every nerve screaming out for him to move.

But it was the next shot that hit the rock next to Athos’s head that made d’Artagnan howl into his gloved fist.

The ball cannoned into the rock, sending a large piece ricocheting into the side of Athos’s head above his eyebrow. They watched in horror as his head snapped back with the force momentarily, his eyes open. Then his head fell forward again onto his chest, eyes closed now, the wound growing red as blood poured down the side of his face.

Porthos had to use all his strength to keep a hold of d’Artagnan’s leg in case he leapt forward and was lost to them.

“Why don’t they just kill him?” cried d’Artagnan, at the end of his tether now.

“Oh, but this is so much more fun,” replied Aramis grimly.

oOo

Aramis lay on his front with his musket balanced on the top of the fallen log, hat brim pulled low. Every now and then, he had to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye with a thumb. He needed his vision clear. But he was growing desperate now, and it was against his nature not to take risks.

“This is impossible!” he said in frustration, looking up at the ridge.

“They can see us, we cannot see them, and this is our only cover.”

“I ain’t gonna die here,” said Porthos, looking over at Athos at the other side of the clearing, the mid afternoon sun now beginning to shine directly on him.

“Not without a firm grip on ‘im,” he finished.

Night fell, all too soon. It should have been better but it wasn’t. They couldn’t afford to move or the lack of light may have led to a musket ball finding a deadly target.

So they waited.

They lay close to each other, shoulders touching. For comfort. Wishing they could comfort Athos, who had not moved for such a long time.

They caught a movement on the ridge high above them, but Aramis vetoed any action, as there was now a pale moon lighting the clearing, so they did not have the advantage of darkness. They could just about make Athos out. He was still, but visibly shivering. The blood had congealed on the side of his face now.

At some point during the night, d’Artagnan became aware that the hand holding his leg was no longer there. He raised himself and looked around.

Porthos was gone.

oOo

Aramis knows. He has made no attempt to stop Porthos . d’Artagnan is furious, having been restrained by both his brothers and is about to argue, but Aramis silences him with a look.

“I sent him,” he said, looking up at the ridge, the direction Porthos had taken, and d’Artagnan understands.

The night wears slowly on.

Aramis hopes it is darker higher on the ridge where Porthos is.

Eventually, birdsong starts to filter through the quiet of the forest, growing into a loud crescendo. As dawn finally breaks, d’Artagnan can stand it no longer.

Adrenaline flows through his veins, and against his better judgement, he moves.

Considering he has been laid in the same position for several hours on the cold ground, he is fast. To him though, it feels as if he is running through a thick heavy fog that pulls at his legs and pushes against his chest. His eyes never leave Athos, but everything has slowed down. He can no longer hear the birds, only the blood thrumming in his head. He waits for the shot that will take him down, but he doesn’t care now. Everything that has happened during the last two weeks crystallises into this one moment ...

And he finally reaches Athos. His surroundings slam back into place and he reaches out to touch the broken man before him.

At the same moment, someone comes crashing out of the trees on his left.

d’Artagnan instinctively rolls away and comes up on one knee, raising his musket.

Aramis, musket also raised, shouts in alarm,

“No! Don’t shoot! It’s Porthos!”

d’Artagnan hears and heeds, and lowers his weapon, gasping for breath.

Porthos stands, panting, hands covered in blood, relieved he has avoided being shot by his brother.

“It’s alright,” he huffs, registering d’Artagnan’s horrified look at the amount of blood;

“Not my blood. I found three of them up there. Throats cut. Don’t think they saw it coming,” he said.

“Tracks showed there were six horses though,” Porthos said, continuing to pant,

“That means three got away.”

Porthos bent then and wiped his bloodied hands on the grass, before nodding to Aramis, who stood and ran across the clearing, skidding to a halt in front of Athos.

They all sank to their knees in front of their brother, but dare not touch him.

Aramis tentatively reaches out and places a hand gently on Athos’s chest, beneath his ruined muslin shirt. They hold their breath.

He cannot feel a heartbeat, so he falls forward to place his ear on the still chest.

Porthos reaches out and takes hold of d’Artagnan’s arm. He leans into him.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Aramis whispers frantically.

After long moments, he looks up at his two brothers, eyes shining,

“He’s breathing,” he gasps, falling back on his haunches.

They all end up on the ground then, elated, exhausted, spent.

d’Artagnan brings the water skin and they attempt to get some water into him and wash the blood from his face. It’s a nasty wound, but his skull is intact. Aramis studies the wound in his arm, and is relieved to see there is an exit wound. But he is still unresponsive.

“Dried blood on the back of his head; old wound, probably done on the first day,” Porthos points out to Aramis.

Aramis nods distractedly, more concerned with his brother’s lack of response.

Sitting for hours in the clearing, Athos has been subjected to the heat of the daylight sun and the chill of the night. He is still shivering.

d’Artagnan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a familiar scarf, and gently wraps it around Athos’s neck. Porthos and Aramis exchange a look. They didn’t know he had brought the scarf with him, and it is a heartbreaking moment for them.

Porthos shrugged off his jacket then, and gently pulled Athos forward, sliding the jacket around his shoulders before shuffling in behind him and pulling him into a firm hold.

Suddenly, Porthos started to laugh, an empty hollow laugh they had never heard before. It turned into a guttural sound and ended with a strangled sob.

“He’s still got both ears,” he said. It’s all he’d been thinking of.

He stopped himself then, through fear he may not be able to stop.

So he started to hum, and to slowly rock his brother, now limp in his arms.

d’Artagnan knelt and gently picked up Athos’s hand, thinking about the first note; _“Four is a bond now broken....”_

“Has he given up?” he said softly, looking up at Aramis.

Aramis couldn’t speak.

Just when they thought the game was lost, Athos moved.

Realising he was restrained, he started to struggle weakly, but then tilting his head back, and seeing who held him, he relaxed.

_“Porthos,”_ he murmured quietly, allowing himself to be rocked by his brother, listening to the gentle humming.

d’Artagnan laughed.

Aramis took hold of Athos’s other hand in his own and held it to his chest.

“Make the most of it Porthos,” he said, “He’ll be pushing you off tomorrow.”

Porthos tightened his grip and continued to hum.

They all sat like that for a long time.

To be continued ...


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Later, they retrieved their horses and started back to Paris. Athos was doubled up with Porthos, who had his arms wrapped tightly around his still limp brother. As it would take longer to return than the frantic flight there, they agreed to stop for a night at the nearest inn.

They were wary on the ride back, aware that three of the perpetrators had escaped them.

They planned to stop one night only but it soon became clear that they would have to stop for longer. As much as they wanted to get back to Paris and leave the last nightmare two weeks behind them, when Porthos reined his horse to a stop and looked at Aramis, the medic knew that a one night stay would not be enough.

“He’s not doin’ so good,” Porthos said, resting his chin on the top of Athos’s head.

Athos had only spoken one word since they had found him in the forest; Porthos’s name. His wounds cleaned and bandaged, he seemed content to just remain in his brother’s arms. In the brief time Porthos had ridden with him in front, Athos had become unresponsive once more. Porthos did not know if he was asleep.

Aramis leant across and felt Athos’s forehead, and was relieved to find it did not feel hot.

“He’s exhausted. And he’s obviously been drugged, his pupils have been enlarged since we found him,” he said after lifting an eyelid.

“That explains a lot,” said d’Artagnan, quietly.

Aramis had suspected that Athos had been rendered unconscious in order to move him to the forest, and keep him immobile for a while until they arrived. It was just another added complication that Athos didn’t need.

Porthos was reluctant to stop, but Aramis lay his hand on his friend’s arm,

“Porthos, it will help us too,” he whispered.

“We shared this pain with him, we need to heal too.”

oOo

They all breathed a sigh of relief some short time later when they came upon The Blue Boar, a pleasant double fronted inn, set back from the road on the edge of a small wood.

It must have been a terrible shock for the Innkeeper and his wife when they opened the door to the sight that greeted them, but they could not have been kinder. A boy appeared and quietly and efficiently took their horses to the stable. Very quickly, a room was found at the back of the building with three beds, and a fourth bed was quickly moved in from another room.

Porthos settled Athos gently onto one of the beds. When he moved to straighten up, Athos’s hand was holding tightly onto his jacket and he had to gently unfurl his fingers before he could stand properly. Looking down as his sleeping brother, he leant over and touched his forehead, being careful to avoid his injury.

“Peace now, brother ... hmmm?” he murmured.

Aramis set to work. He removed the ruined shirt and tossed it aside. Then he untied the scarf and handed it back for safe keeping to d’Artagnan with a smile. Porthos brought hot water and fresh towels from the kitchen, and they set about washing two weeks dirt and blood from his body. Aramis cleaned the wounds on his forehead and his arm, bandaging the arm tightly after sewing the entry and exit holes left by the musket ball. Sheets and blankets were then thrown over him and carefully tucked in.

d’Artagnan stood in the corner of the room, watching Porthos and Aramis caring for Athos, realising that for all their banter and eccentricities, he was in the company of battle hardened soldiers, and he felt out of his depth. Realising that he was feeling lost, they pulled him toward the table and sat with him, explaining how some soldiers after battle were often unresponsive, even with no physical injuries.

“But he has us, he knows we are here, that he is rescued – he spoke to Porthos!”

“One word, mon ami. He spoke one word,” Aramis said.

He took hold of d’Artagnan’s shoulders and looked intently at him.

“Do not expect too much,” he said, “it will take time.”

“But he has been in battle before,” whispered d’Artagnan, looking across at Athos.

“Not like this,” said Porthos, gently.

“This has been an evil game,” Aramis said.

d’Artagnan had such a desperate look in his eyes that Aramis felt for him.

“Yes, I believe he does know we are here, but at the moment, he does not have the will to help himself. The mind is a powerful thing,” he finished. Porthos squeezed his shoulder, knowing Aramis was speaking from experience, and needing to offer his brother some comfort.

“When any of us are in trouble, we know our brothers are looking out for us. Athos did not have that, he had to face the possibility that he would not see us again, and that he could do nothing to help ... and that he would have to live with that.” 

“You know how he burdens himself. There is only so much a man can take.” Aramis whispered, rising and going back to his seat by Athos.

“Killing is easy – some things are worse,” murmured Porthos.

d’Artagnan was beginning to feel very uneasy about the way his brothers were talking.

oOo

Athos was finally settled, Aramis checked his eyes once more, and was relieved to see the pupils were smaller now.

They left him to sleep.

“What now?” asked d’Artagnan, as they all moved to the table in the corner.

“We wait,” Aramis replied.

oOo

He woke three times, and each time sought his brothers. There was always one sitting beside him. Like him, they were completely drained, having slept and eaten little in the past two weeks. They took it in shifts to be with him. When they were not with him, they walked in the wood behind the inn, or, in d’Artagnan’s case, took refuge in the stable. Otherwise, they were careful to keep themselves to themselves.

In the end, there was just one nightmare, but it was long and ferocious. Porthos had to hold on tight to keep him from harm. But it did serve to excise a lot of the dark emotions he harboured, and so it was a turning point as finally, he woke and his eyes stayed open. Of course, Aramis was there instantly in his line of vision, asking how he felt. And was he hungry? Although he was not, his stomach being little used recently, just to make Aramis happy, he nodded and d’Artagnan hurried off to fetch broth. Surprisingly, he found he was ravenous and Aramis gave him his brightest smile.

After, Athos lay quietly. They waited until he was ready to speak.

“I never saw them. I don’t remember anything until I woke up, and then I had a hood over my head, and a terrible headache.” Aramis reached over and took his hand.

“I don’t know how many hours or days I lost,” he continued. “There was water, although it was never refreshed. Food arrived through the hole in the door once a day.

“Did you eat, mon ami?” Aramis couldn’t resist asking him.

Athos looked at him with a sad smile.

“Sometimes,” he said.

_“Brother,”_

Aramis whispered, his heart breaking.

“I saw no-one. The notes were pushed under the door. At first I did not understand.”

“I found the first one disturbing,” he continued. “The one that said you were defenceless. I was tormented that I could not help.”

“The one that said you could hear me – I shouted then until I was hoarse.”

Porthos looked at d’Artagnan, remembering how they had found him crumpled on the street after receiving the same note.

Porthos took his other hand, and saw that his knuckles were sore and bruised. He ran his thumb over the back of his hand. Athos saw they had the same injuries.

“I see you used your knuckles as well,” Porthos chuckled.

“Not wisely,” Athos smiled.

Later, Aramis sat next to Athos and bathed his hands, as he had done previously with Porthos.

“When the note came that said you were cold, my mind showed me all sorts of images. I struggled to think where you could all be, defenceless, cold, but within reach, if I could only make you hear,” His voice broke and he looked down at his hands. “And then, I heard muskets firing, so I knew I was within reach of the Garrison. And so it went on.”

“In the end, I had no hope, I thought you were lost to me,” he said.

“As did we, Mon Ami,” replied Aramis.

Porthos said quietly, “While you were goin’ through all that, we were going through the same torment!” Athos looked at him, not understanding.

“We had the same notes. They kept appearin’ or were brought to us. Along with other things,” he said darkly.

They told him then of the severed arm, and the ear.

“Worse than I then,” Athos whispered.

“No!” cried d’Artagnan. “We had each other - you were alone.”

“But still,” he whispered, “I cannot countenance how it must have felt to look upon those things.”

Later, when he asked how his brothers had found him, Aramis told him about Milady’s involvement. He was as confused as they were as to her motives, and Aramis quickly changed the subject, lest he fall into melancholy. But Athos reached over and took Aramis’s hand, and then looking at each of them in turn he said quietly,

“Thank you, you all mean so much to me.”

Aramis finally brought them back;

“They tried to break us, but we are stronger for it. _We are made for better days, my friends,”_ he said finally.

“Can I remind you, three had their throats cut and three have escaped. None of us are safe, still!” d’Artagnan said, bringing them back to reality.

oOo

For their part, the Innkeeper and his wife had wondered about these men, who had come to them looking for help with their stricken comrade. At first, they were fearful, looking at the unkempt condition of the men, and were wary of such responsibility; but the large man had been so kind and reassuring and said they would take care of him. The couple offered to send for a doctor, but again the large man said they had all they needed. So the innkeeper and his wife gave them a room and kept up a steady flow of hot water, food and wine; even providing a clean shirt for Athos.

At first, they did not see any of the men, who kept to their room but over the next few days, one by one, they emerged and began to talk to them. They each seemed to need space to themselves but then they would gather in the one room they had taken with their brother in arms and they would remain there together to pass the night.

Their guests were quiet, their silence only broken on one occasion by the distressed cry of a bad dream, which seemed to go on and on. She had sat up in bed with a start that night, and listened until it eventually went quiet, before lying down again.

Phillipe, the boy who looked after the stable, had recognised their uniforms, and told them that these men were the King’s Musketeers, and it was he who was asked to ride to the Garrison in Paris with a message for their Captain.

He returned late the next day with a reply. Handing it to the one called Aramis, it seemed the man was more settled after reading it. The Captain had also given the boy a purse with enough to pay for their lodgings. Aramis took it gratefully.

Phillipe had one more thing to give to Aramis.

“The Captain said he would be needing this,” he said.

Jumping from his horse and untying something from behind the saddle, he gave him Athos’s spare leather jacket. Aramis smiled at Treville’s kind thought, hoping the other one had now been disposed of, as he knew none of them would be able to look at it.

Looking at Phillipe, he said,

“Did you try it on?”

The boy's face reddened, but he met his eye.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Good man!” said Aramis, clapping him enthusiastically on the shoulder.

“One day, you may well wear one of your own, my friend!”

Phillipe gazed happily at him, overwhelmed with new horizons.

After five night’s accommodation, they made preparations to return to Paris, purchasing a spare horse as they had arrived with only three.

Marie, the Innkeepers wife, stood by the front door, as her husband joined Phillipe in the stables to help prepare the horses.

Hearing them coming along the upper landing, she smoothed her hands down her dress, and looked up expectantly, as they came down the stairs.

The one called Aramis came down first, and taking her hand in his, raised it to his lips, whilst holding her gaze. The young one followed and kissed her on the cheek. The large one opened his arms wide and scooped her up into a mighty embrace, before pressing a purse into her hand. And then, at the rear, there was the fourth man, now walking on his own two feet. The others were protective of him still, looking around to make sure he was alright.

He, humility personified, accepted every small gesture and word with a quiet quirk of his lips, and tilt of his head. The man had an aura about him; so different from the first time she had seen him, in such a state of collapse she feared he would die under her roof. Then, he had been carried in by his large friend, his head propped against the man’s shoulder and his arm hanging down, the sleeve wet with blood. Now, he stood in front of her, wearing the black leather jacket, over one of her husband’s shirts. The side of his head was bruised black and swollen, and he supported his arm with his other hand, but this was a different man.

He looked almost shy as he reached for her hand,

“Madame,” he murmured in a soft, melodious voice,

“Thank you for your hospitality, your kindness ... and your discretion.”

He held her gaze for a moment on the last word, binding her in an unspoken promise.

It was his eyes, she thought afterwards, when they had gone. Those green eyes ...

He was obviously their leader, they saw, as the others three quietly deferred to him whilst getting their horses ready. He declined their offer of assistance to mount and when he was settled in the saddle, he looked at them both and gave a quiet tilt of his head in their direction.

And then they were gone.

She would not forget the day four of the King’s Musketeers came to their door.

oOo

They had never been so grateful to see the Garrison, arriving back tired, but relieved. Having been on his own for two weeks, Athos tolerated the greetings of his comrades with good grace, and the fierce embrace he received from Treville.

d’Artagnan brought Athos his sword and pauldron and they watched as he buckled both on, where they belonged.

After giving them a few days to settle, Treville opened his door on morning and stepped onto his balcony.

“You four, my office, now.”

He had taken the greatest delight in saying that, once more.

“I’m giving you three days leave,” he announced, as they lined up in front of his desk,

“I don’t want to see you in the Garrison, or even in Paris.”

When he saw they were going to protest, he held up his hand.

“No arguments, I want you all fit for duty on your return, so make the most of it. The rostas are already done.”

Later, he smiled as he watched them sitting at their familiar table, making plans for a trip, bickering over the location, before deciding.

“It’s settled then,” Aramis said finally, slapping the table top.

At that moment, Porthos looked up and recognised a dark haired child from the Court of Miracles, standing self consciously under the archway. He walked softly toward him, and knelt down in front of him. The child handed him a folded note. Porthos froze. Giving the child a coin, he turned and walked back toward his three brothers, sitting at the table.

Putting the note on the table, they all looked at each other, and then at the note.

Athos reached over and unfolded it.

Inside was a small blue pressed flower.

His breath caught in his throat, but he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Written in her distinctive hand, the note read:

_They are dead_

Folding the note, he slipped it into an inside pocket and said, quietly, “It’s over.”

Later, packed and ready to go, Aramis turned his face to the sun.

“It’s a beautiful day, Gentlemen,” he said softly.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, off they go. And for those of you who are wondering who masterminded this evil game, it is like Treville said: “Consider this; you may never know....” At least they have six less enemies now, thanks to a lady with fire in her eyes, for whatever motive. But ... can Treville be certain he only hires honourable men ....?


End file.
